Mother Nature has my back

   I have a friend who is an early riser. By this I mean she voluntarily hops out of bed at five in the morning. Not only does she get up with, or possibly before, the birds, she also exercises daily and recommends it to me fairly frequently. I don't understand early risers and I particularly dislike exercise.

   But as I am aging at a rather alarming pace, I realize that if I don't use some of my muscles some of the time, they may decide to retire to a lovely Caribbean island without me. This poses a dilemma. 

   Luckily for me, Mother Nature takes lazy saps such as I into account. She has perfected a daily exercise regimen for seniors and we aren't even aware we're doing it.

   We've all stood in front of a closet at one time or another and wondered why we were standing there, haven't we? What most of you don't know is that this simple brain fart, as I've heard it called, turns into an exercise form as we age.

   For instance, it's morning. I've just gotten to the kitchen and turned the kettle on, but it's quite chilly. I go back upstairs to get my sweater. I walk into the bedroom and get a tissue and return to the kitchen. It's still chilly.

   I once again go up the stairs and into the bedroom. This time I quickly use the facilities and return to the kitchen. You guessed it. It's still chilly.

   Third time's the charm. I walk up the stairs while repeating to myself, "Sweater, sweater, sweater, sweater" until I reach the closet and grab the sweater. Three trips up and down the stairs and the day has hardly begun.

   Since this type of exercise only works to keeps my creaking knees somewhat oiled and a bit of cardio, Mother Nature has supplied a variation on this theme. The carrying of objects up and down the stairs for no apparent reason. This keeps the arms from getting too flabby. It goes like this. I take the fish for dinner out of the freezer in the basement and walk directly to the closet in my bedroom up two flights of stairs. I stand there for a moment trying to figure out why the hell I am holding a fish in the closet. I decide I must retrace my steps. After walking back to the kitchen, then to the basement, all time holding the frozen fish, I realize that I intended to put my sweater back in the closet because I was now quite comfortable heat-wise.

   After two additional trips, one to take up the towels and put them away, and one to retrieve the fish from the closet where I put it with the towels, the sweater is hung up and dinner is on the table!

   I haven't actually counted, but I think that yesterday I walked up and down my stairs at least 300 times either forgetting to fetch a sweater or the like or forgetting why in the name of all that's holy I was upstairs (or downstairs or on the deck) in the first place. This could be an exaggeration, but I prefer to think not. Mother Nature, I thank you very much.

Remembering My Brother

On May 22nd, 1968 my brother, Tim Clover, was killed in Viet Nam. A long dark night began for our family. It was only our deep, abiding love for our parents, for his widow and son, and for each other that saw our family through until morning finally dawned, slowly creeping over the horizon, lighting our way once again. 

Tim was truly special - our only boy, handsome, charismatic, highly intelligent. He was a poet and a dreamer who hated the war. And he was my best friend from the day I was born until the day he was lost. Although I wrote this eulogy years ago, time hasn’t erased the sense of loss. My life is a good one. I have a wonderful husband and family, close friends, and beautiful grand-children. But I will miss Tim always.

                                                                                        Tim 

Glancing out the window I catch a glimpse of the last sunlight of day brightening, almost artificially, the Western sky, thrusting me back to the remembrance of the last light of my day long years ago. An interminable dark night followed before a slow dawn. The pain is sometimes as acute now as it was then, only now it last seconds, minutes, instead of hours and long nights.

            Could it be almost fifteen years already? When in that time did I lose the lovely silliness of childhood? When did I become so inhibited that I ceased sitting on curbs for lack of chairs or mimicking the caged gorilla to make him talk to me? At what point was I unable to utter the beautiful little fantasies and half-truths that fall trippingly from every child's tongue?

            Fifteen years! A long time and, yet, not so long. Not long enough to heal the wound, but long enough to make other matters equally or more important. Long enough to become a woman, wife, and mother, but not long enough for the soul to catch up with the body. In many ways, I will always remain an insecure teen-ager waiting for her brother's approval.

            The scenes my mind conjures up are so agonizingly real, but without them my life would be sorely empty. His voice, his mannerisms, his face are only shadows of memory. His uncanny insight into my mind and mine into his, the need now for fumbling words where once none were needed, the total empathy of brother and sister that I now miss are the substance of the memory brought back so abruptly to me in a seconds glance at a fading sky.

            He was a part of me since my earliest memory, the person most closely entwined with my childhood and youth. He consoled me and wept with me in those horrendous teen-age years that unmercifully coincided with the sixties, that time of turbulence so unfathomable for a girl of seventeen. This is a eulogy for a beloved brother who was lost in that turbulence. Long may he rest now in peace.

Life lessons learned

Kids learn a lot of good things playing sports. My son, Matt, played baseball. This is a wonderful sport for teaching patience, concentration, team work, and how to win graciously or lose with dignity. But sometimes, some more interesting lessons can be learned!

In 1999, Matt's team had won the local championship and was headed to the regional play-offs hoping to get to the Babe Ruth World Series in Abbeville, Louisiana. The usual etiquette had been for the host team's families to house the players for the tournament. And we had been assured it was all taken care of.

Imagine our surprise when we got to Hamilton New Jersey to find that no such accommodation had been made. Good sportsmanship requires me to believe that this was a genuine mistake on Hamilton's (our chief rival) part. Others may think differently.

At any rate, there we were with fifteen boys with no place to lay their heads. The scramble began to find a motel that had room for the team, the coaching staff, and the parents. Luckily, there was such a place to be had just across Route 1 in Pennsylvania. The only catch being that this motel was attached to a 'gentleman's club'. A glance at the clientele might have you looking up 'gentleman' in the dictionary, but the rooms were clean and we were close to the ball field.  

An interesting thing about Route 1 in Pennsylvania is that you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a sex shop or a gentleman's club. There are just tons of them. Every block seems to have at least one or the other.

Well, our boys learned quite a few things that week other than the value of hard work and good sportsmanship. They learned that working girls sometimes rent hotel rooms by the hour, that adults who have had too much to drink sometimes go skinny dipping in hotel pools and don't seem to mind a couple of idiot kids jumping in with them, and that if you really annoy your coach by climbing onto the roof in the middle of the night, he will bang on your door and get you up at six a.m. for an impromptu practice.

Despite the odd week, our team won the tournament and they got to Louisiana for the Babe Ruth World Series where they acquitted themselves well coming in third. And I think the added attractions just made it all more memorable.

What would Daisy do? Character development 101

This week I have to honor of being a guest on Evelyn Cullet's 'Evey's Writers Blog'. Check it out at http://evelyncullet.com/penny-clover-petersen-daisy-rose-mystery-series/#comments

What would Daisy do?

One of things I like about writing is being someone else for a while. I can be eccentric, or angry, or charming and it all works out for the best. I like to take a situation and imagine how each of my characters would handle it. I have three main characters, sisters Daisy and Rose who own a gift boutique together and their mother Angela who interferes.


Suppose these ladies are on their way home from a funeral. They drove separately and are about ten minutes apart as they pass through a speed trap. What would each lady do?


Angela Forrest after being pulled over would first let her dog, Percy, out of the car to answer a call of nature. She would then tell the police officer that she's so sorry she may have been a little distracted. She is on her way home from a dear friend's funeral and her mind was elsewhere. She would go on to say that she hoped he is wearing sunscreen, especially on his neck, because he certainly doesn't want sun spots later on in life, and he could use a little Biz in the laundry to get the tiny ketchup stain off his shirt. Finally she would scoop up Percy who had chosen the officer's leg to have a good time with, give him her calling card, and invite him for dinner. She would then get back in the car and drive away, the policeman never having had the chance to get a word in.


Daisy Forrest Greene, on the other hand, would probably not be so diplomatic. She isn't the greatest fan of the police, her ex-husband, rat-bastard extraordinaire Bill Greene, being a detective with the Maryland State Police. I'm pretty sure Daisy would roll down her window, give the officer a 'look' and say, "What!" After being asked if she realized that she had been speeding, she would answer that, of course she was and you would be too if you had just had to sit through the longest, most boring wake of your entire life. One hundred and fifty people in a hot room overwhelmed with the smell of lilies talking about a nasty old woman who was ninety-nine years old if she was a day and the only reason these people were there was on the off chance that she left them something in her will. Finally she would hand him her license and registration after a bit of digging in her purse and tell him to get a move on if he was giving her a ticket because she had a vodka and tonic waiting at home with her name on it. Incorrectly, but fortunately for her, he would think that she was Detective Greene's wife, not his ex, and give her a warning. She would sigh, shake her head and speed off.


And then there is Rose Forrest. A bit less volatile, Rose would give the officer an alluring smile as she hands him her license and registration that happen to be right at hand, tosses her hair back as she says, "I'm so sorry. The day was so lovely, I guess I got a little carried away. It's so good to be alive." A tear would trickle down her cheek and she would mention that she was just returning from attending a close relations funeral. She could also absolutely understand if he needed to give her a ticket. She really should be more careful and will in the future. At which point, the poor sap, already worn down by Angela and Daisy, simply gives in to the inevitable and tells her he's very sorry about her loss and please take care.


Of course, none of these is even remotely resembles how I would handle this sort of thing in real life. What would actually happen is I would have purse panic looking for my license, become nearly hysterical as I fumble in the glove box for the registration, answer politely if all too honestly all his questions - yes, of course I know I was doing 60 in a 40 zone and no, I have not been drinking unless you count the 14 cups of tea I had waiting for my mother to say good-bye to all of her friends. At this point I no doubt would burst out crying. And not looking too alluring with a red runny nose, I would get a big fat ticket and be sent on my way.

Seven to Ten Days from Tuesday

Have you ever thought that you were, perhaps, an Invisible Person? Are you, like I seem to be, the Invisible Customer, the Invisible Patient, the Invisible Voice Crying in the Wilderness? I'd like to think I'm not the only person in the world who seems to be constantly overlooked.

An instance of this rather annoying condition -  my husband and I recently contributed to Maryland Public Television and requested a thank-you gift. Tom has been looking forward to listening to endless hours of 1950's pop music. I have not, but that's not really the issue. The issue is that it's been almost two months now and we have no music.

I called this morning to find out where the heck our CDs were. After being put on hold three times as the woman who answered tried to figure out just who I was and what I had requested, I was told that, oh dear, it seems that our little contribution was incorrectly entered into whatever database they use. Silence.

Silly question from me. When can I expect my music? Well, if they have one in the studio - about two weeks from next Tuesday. Is it me or is this rather odd? Perhaps, they only mail things on Tuesday.  At any rate, Invisible Person that I am, I got a rather vague apology and no promise of any particular help. I mentioned that this was not a great way to do business and got a pretty darned soggy, "Sorry."

And my husband just walked in the door and gave me a second Invisible Instance - just today. He'd been to the eye doctor. He has been seeing this doctor for several years now, in fact, ever since he opened the practice. The receptionist asked my husband a long list of questions which he answered (with a degree of irritability, not understanding why he was telling her things she must already know). When she came to the last one - "How did you hear about us?" - he realized that she thought he was a new patient. She hadn't found his file. Really!? Invisibility strikes again.

Anyhow, I find that this dread disease seems to attack me more and more often. I think I'm actually fading because it couldn't be that the current customer service mentality is not so much about service, as it is about getting you off the phone, could it? For any of you who also have this affliction, I wish you well and you'll receive the gift for your generous donation seven to ten days from next Tuesday.

Guest blogger - Mia Marie Rafield

I have a very special blog today. My great-niece, Mia Maria Rafield, has written a short story. Mia was visiting Mimi and Poppy's house where she discovered an actual, old-fashioned typewriter. She was intrigued, deeming it "fascinating". Mia mastered the operation of the machine in no time and began to write.

Mia is in the second grade and loves to read, read, read. But she's not only a bookworm. Mia also has her yellow belt in karate, is a Daisy Scout, loves archery and climbing, and they haven't invented an amusement park ride that she won't go on. And I have to add that she's cute as a bug!

I have re-typed the entire story and letter here with a bit of editing (spelling and punctuation only, the text is all Mia's). I hope you enjoy this budding author's work as much as I did.

Dear Aunt Penny,
Please publish my story - I have been working on this for 5 years, I mean minutes, and I think you understand. So anyway please publish my story.
Love Mia Marie Rafield

Wednesday March 12 2014

In the beginning of the day, well I guess it was not so great of a morning. My Nana told me that if I did not fold my clothes and clean my room and take everything off of my hangers that I could not go to Mimi's and Poppy's house. That made me sad.

So I rushed right in to my room and got to work.

20 minutes later the doorbell rings. I got my socks and shoes, got my bags and stood at the door. But when I opened the door it was my brothers' baby sitter. I got my brother and gave him to her, I said good bye. I shut the door and waited on the sofa.

10 minutes later the door bell rings again. This time was sure it was them. And it was. I was so excited!

Let's literally take a stand

I heard some disturbing news the other day and I was so amazed that my teeth literally fell out of my mouth. And yes, apparently I can say that because the news was that the OED, as well as Mirriam-Webster, define 'literally' as 'virtually'. Will the madness never end?
literally

Mirriam-Webster 2:  in effect :  virtually 

Oxford English Dictionary

c. colloq. Used to indicate that some (freq. conventional) metaphorical or hyperbolical expression is to be taken in the strongest admissible sense: ‘virtually, as good as’; (also) ‘completely, utterly, absolutely’. Now one of the most common uses, although often considered irregular in standard English since it reverses the original sense of literally.

Yes, yes, yes, I know that English is literally an ever-moving river of thought and change, and frequently sludge, but really, this is bit much. Let's face it, this is big.

If we accept that what is literal is actually only figurative than there goes the comic validity of Sheldon Cooper cocking his head, raising his eyebrows as he says, "literally?" when Penny enthusiastically says something like, "My head literally exploded!" This always gets a huge laugh, as it should. Sheldon is a hoot, as is Penny. (If you don't watch The Big Bang Theory, you might try it. We all need a little inane laughter in our lives.)

Not only will comedy be effected. How will we know when literally means just that. Suppose I went to a hockey game and was hit in the mouth by a puck and I was telling you that my teeth literally fell out of my mouth. How would you know whether or not they had? Well, the ice pack, tears, the inability to open my mouth and the need to write all of this down for you might give it away. But you get my drift.

So, as writers, readers, and lovers of the English language, I think we should literally take a stand - in front of the TV as we watch The Big Bang Theory and wear helmets to hockey games while standing in an upright position